We're All Hurting
by Lisa Von Cooper
Summary: They both have different reasons for doing it. Vanellope needs proof of her existence and worth; Felix feels the need to punish himself. They both have different places where they do it. Vanellope cuts her arms; Felix cuts his legs. But despite the differences, the habit brings them together – and the danger threatens to tear them apart.
1. Part One: The Reasons

**We're All Hurting**

**Part One: The Reasons**

_Her_

You've been stuck in the habit for a while now. You still remember when you started, and you have a pretty good theory as to why.

For fifteen years, you were treated like dirt. They were all mean as maggots to you. They called you names. They destroyed what few possessions you owned. They pushed you into puddle after puddle after puddle. Sometimes, if you listen carefully, you can still hear their voices echoing in your memories.

"_I wish you didn't exist._"

"_You'll never be a racer._"

"_You're just a glitch – and that's all you ever be!_"

Worse than all that, though, was the casual remark that He Who Shall Not Be Named made one night. He'd caught you after a long chase and was shoving you back into your cell in the Fungeon, your home away from home. As he wrapped a glitch-proof collar around your waist, he said three words that stuck with you long after he locked the door.

"_You are nothing._"

That got to you. You remember thinking angrily that you weren't nothing. You were a person. You had hopes and fears and dreams and feelings, just like everyone else. That didn't change because you pixelated now and then.

But with so many hours alone to think, you started to wonder – was he right? Were you really a person?

So when you were released and you returned to Diet Cola Mountain, you hatched a plan.

You found a nougat stone with a jagged edge.

You pulled a sleeve up.

You drew the stone across your wrist.

And there it was: confirmation that you existed. You felt the pain and winced. You saw the thick red line ooze through the opening in your skin. You saw the thin blue line twisted around it. 01100010 01101100 01101111 01101111 01100100. Binary for "blood."

You smiled to yourself. He Who Shall Not Be Named was talking out of his butt.

But you could never be too sure.

So you did it again. And again.

Every.

Single.

Night.

Really, you should have stopped by now. He Who Shall Not Be Named is dead and gone. Your code has been fixed; you're not an outcast anymore. You're back in your position as President of _Sugar Rush_. Your bullies are now your best friends. You have a big brother (literally) who always looks out for you and would never let you down.

It all seems too good to be true.

Maybe it is. Maybe your crazy mind is creating an elaborate dream. Maybe you'll wake up at any moment and find yourself back in the doughnut bed under that crudely-built lean-to, a glitch and a nobody once more.

But wait! Here's the sting of the knife. Here's the stab of pain. Here's the trickle of interwoven blood and code. Here are the leftovers from all the other times, the ridges of skin on your arms concealed by a hoodie.

Here is the proof that you're not dreaming.

It's more than that, though. Your code is not like it was before. It's been restored to its former glory. The zeros and ones sparkle and (if you look closely) are tinged with gold. It's beautiful. So are you. You're not nothing. You deserve the good treatment that's been thrust upon you. You have worth. You matter.

You have nothing to fear.

Everything is all right.

And that, along with the endorphins released from your agony, makes you happy.

* * *

_Him_

You're a bad guy.

Okay, technically, you're not. You're supposed to be the Good Guy, the one who fixes the wreckage. And that's usually what happens. Everyone treats you like a hero. You've had so many shiny medals and tasty pies from grateful townspeople that you've lost count.

And do you deserve any of it?

No. Not one crumb.

You never won any of those medals. It was always the girl with greasy mop-like hair, or the boy who kept picking his nose, or the grown man who slowly developed a hunchback. It was always the human on the other side of the screen who saved the day. You were just the man who ran and jumped and fixed whenever they told you to. All you did, day in, day out, was follow orders – and yet everyone saw that as something to be rewarded.

Their prizes trapped you in a bubble of indulgence and make-believe. You enjoyed it at first. For thirty years you let yourself be treated like a hero. You happily blinded yourself to the truth.

And the truth was that, all that time, he was suffering.

You still remember the conversation that changed everything. It was when, for the first time in thirty years, you'd experienced heartbreak and hatred. For the first time in your life, you'd been rejected and treated like a criminal. In a moment of rage, you yelled at him, told him that he didn't understand what that was like. You did not expect his reply.

"_Yes, I do. That's every day of my life._"

You didn't realise it then, but your eyes had been opened. Oh, how could you have been so blind? How could you not have seen how much he ached for a slice of your glory? How could you not have offered to be a friend when he needed one?

Not that you'd have made much of a friend.

After all, in the Turbo/King Candy/Cy-Bug fiasco, who emerged as the real hero? He did. He stepped forward, ready to sacrifice himself to save the arcade. He was not afraid. He was willing to die and never regenerate if it meant that a little girl had a chance to live out her dream.

You will never measure up to Wreck-It Ralph. And if he's the Bad Guy, then what does that make you?

Every day, the fog of negative thoughts descends on your mind. You are ignorant. You are horrible. You are despicable. You are . . . struggling to find any adjectives that best describe you.

So you let the razor blade do the talking.

When the fluid dribbles down your legs, it's like someone pressing a RESET button in your head. The fog clears. Emotional pain has an escape route: physical pain. You feel a little better.

For now, at least.

Of course, whenever you catch a glimpse of the brick pile, or hear his little friend prattling on about how awesome he is, the fog will return. You'll have to go back into the bathroom and find a new patch of skin to cut.

But it's only fair that you take the blame for Ralph's misery. You need to punish yourself because no-one else will. They would never accept that a Good Guy could be so awful.

That's why you can't tell anyone. They would pity you – or worse still, offer to help – and you can't have that. You can't be a burden on them. You are the rescuer, they are the rescued. That's how it was programmed. Anything else would be unthinkable. As long as you hide the lines on your thighs and legs, you'll be just fine.

You could make the scars go away, if you wanted to. A few taps with your magic hammer and they'd vanish. But when you hurt yourself, you let your wounds heal the hard way. And you want to keep the scars, even though they make you wince when you sit down. They remind you that you are not above anything else. You are not the "super, super guy" they sing about in that famous song.

You are a bad guy and you must be punished.


	2. Part Two: The Revelation

**Part Two: The Revelation**

_Her_

"I'm telling you, Taffyta just came from nowhere. I was so sure I was gonna come second, but then, _whoosh_! I glitched right in front of the Pink Lightning and won the race once again!" You giggle with joy at the memory. "Boy, you should've seen her face. It was like this." You mimic the strawberry-themed racer, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

Your big brother laughs. "Oh, man, that's hilarious. You know, if the racing doesn't work out, you could always be a comedienne."

"The racing _will_ work out," you insist, more for your benefit than for Ralph's. "But I'll keep that in mind."

You and Ralph have now reached _Fix-It Felix Jr._ (you insisted on escorting him back after he visited you in _Sugar Rush_). Most of the Nicelanders are waiting at the train station, including Mary, who holds out a steaming dish. "Would you like to try some of this pie?" she asks, looking directly at Ralph.

"Would I?!" Ralph replies, clearly still not used to the Nicelanders being nice to him. "Um, yeah, sure." He picks up a small slice and bites into it. "Hey, this is good! What flavour is it?"

"Pumpkin. It's a new recipe. I wanted to get in some practice for Halloween, you see."

"Halloween's not for months," you point out.

"Oh, you can never be too prepared for Halloween," Mary warns, eyes darting as if searching for monsters. Her normal smile returns and she spins around; Felix is right behind her. "Here, you can have the bigger slice."

Most people probably wouldn't notice the small crease that appears on Felix's forehead as he chews the pastry. But you do. It's there for a second, and then it goes as soon as he swallows.

You shrug it off.

Your attention turns to the conversation Ralph is having with the Nicelanders. Most of it concerns events that you know nothing about, but it's still interesting to listen to, especially when Mary tells the long story of what she saw in _Burger Time_.

"So then – right in the middle of the diner – Peach says to Rosalina, 'If you're going to steal my boyfriend, you'd better have a getaway kart because I'm coming after you!' She was livid! Wasn't she, Felix?"

There's no affirmation. "Felix?" Mary repeats.

The handyman is nowhere to be seen.

"Where'd he go?" Gene asks. "I wanted to ask him something."

"I'll find him for you," you offer. You glitch out of the crowd of Nicelanders, feeling their hopeful eyes boring into your back, and head for the apartment block. This shouldn't be too hard. All you have to do is follow the 8-bit aroma of pie as it wafts through the building and up the stairs.

The smell fades just outside one of the bathrooms, the one next to Felix's bedroom. You sniff the air. Now you've found another stench that assaults your nostrils – the unmistakeable stink of puke.

You press your ear against the door and listen. You catch a noise which sounds like a cupboard slamming. Then the squeak of a tap. Then running water. Then nothing.

"Hello?" you call.

The sign on the door reads, "If the toilet seat I'm docking, don't come a-knocking!" You ignore the words and enter.

The vision that greets you makes you forget why you came.

He is sitting on the side of the bath holding something sharp. The same crimson liquid which coats the blade is flowing out of his leg and into the tub.

You gasp.

"What are you doing?"

* * *

_Him_

You could feel it as you tasted the pumpkin – the mist of misery clouding your brain and spreading through your whole body. You didn't want the bigger slice. You didn't deserve the bigger slice. Why did you take it in the first place? You should have given it to Ralph or Norwood or Deanna or someone who would've appreciated it.

_You are a bad guy and you must be punished. _

So you had to get out while they were distracted.

On reaching your personal bathroom, you emptied the contents of your stomach. They splashed around the toilet bowl like a whirlpool from Greek mythology. Even when you stopped retching, the mist still lingered.

You began the usual routine. You found the razor blade in its usual spot: at the back of the cupboard above the sink. You slipped off your shoes and socks. You pulled off your trousers. You ran some cold water to fill the bath, just high enough to soak your feet.

You cut.

You held your breath and grimaced when it stung. The familiar fluid surged up and leaked out. You splashed some water on your legs, thinking it would help to clean the wound. Slowly, slowly, you were beginning to wash out the heartache.

Until the raven-haired child walked in.

"What are you doing?"

"Vanellope!" You search your brain for a good excuse. "Uh, I was just, uh . . . redecorating the bathroom!" You stand up in the bath. You're so short that your legs should be hidden perfectly. "Yeah, I thought it needed brightening up, so I'm giving it a lick of paint," you babble. You smear a bit of blood onto the tiles to demonstrate. You look back.

Is Vanellope leaving yet?

Nope.

The nine-year-old approaches with soft footsteps. "Felix," she says, so quietly it's almost a whisper, "that's not paint."

You sigh and wipe off the tiles. "You're right. It's not."

She's seen everything. The razor blade, the new wound, the old scars – everything. "What have you done to your legs?"

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Listen, you should go. You wouldn't understand."

"No, I think I would." She pauses, then taps your shoulder twice. "Here, see this."

You open your eyes. She rolls up her sleeve and shows you what's underneath.

You blink a few times. This can't be right.

Her arm is covered in lines. They are long and short, thick and thin, straight and curved, in shades ranging from dark red to light brown.

"Jiminy jaminy."

Her greenish-hazel eyes, deadly serious, meet your sapphire orbs. "What you're doing to yourself . . . I do it too."

Her voice is calm, as if she's only discussing the weather.

"Why?" That's all you can say. "Why?"

Vanellope shrugs. "You must feel it too. Don't you ever get these nasty thoughts that only go when you give them a route to leave by? Don't you ever feel this . . . this poison bubbling up inside you, making you feel like garbage until it's released?"

And just like that, she's seen through the window to your soul. Your answer comes out so quickly that you don't realise what it means until you've said it.

"Yes."

It means that now you have a friend who truly understands you.


	3. Part Three: The Reckoning

**Part Three: The Reckoning**

_Her_

"Mr Litwak!" Thin Boy calls.

The owner of this arcade strolls towards the twin cabinets of _Sugar Rush_. "What's up?"

Fat Boy throws up a hand in despair. "Cakeway's busted."

"Busted" is putting it lightly. The multi-layered chocolate cakes can no longer be identified as such. They keep buzzing loudly and then breaking up into blocks and binary. Even when they reform into proper cake shapes, the colours are garish and blinding and just plain _wrong_.

You want to burst into tears, but while the arcade's open, you mustn't show any emotion. You simply sit in your Candy Kart and watch the spectacle with ever-fading hope.

"And look what happens when I drive," Thin Boy adds.

You're aware of him making your foot pushing the accelerator. You speed towards the cake and drive onto the curved slope. At least, you should do. Instead, you slip through the iced ground as if you're diving into a pool. The world turns black. You feel weightless. You're falling, falling, falling into oblivion –

No, you're not. You've been dropped back to where you were before by a friendly marshmallow.

"I can't get anywhere without dying!" Thin Boy moans.

"Weird." You recognise the voice as Moppet Girl, one of your game's nicer players. "I was on Gumball Gorge, Frosty Rally _and_ the Nougat Mines earlier, and everything was fine."

"I guess Cakeway's just got a couple of bugs. Like my nana," Mr Litwak adds. He reaches into his pocket and draws out a few coins. "Sorry, guys. Here, have your quarters back."

"But what about the game?" Fat Boy asks. "I mean, if Cakeway is glitching out now, how long will it be until all the other tracks do it too?"

Mr Litwak shrugs. "Dunno. I'll have the repair guy look at it tomorrow. But if he can't fix it, or it gets worse . . . well, we can't say the kids didn't have a good run."

The cakes are still broken, but that's not what's making you choke up right now. What's making you choke up is the orange glow rising from the ground and over the cakes until it touches the sky, enveloping the whole world in a cruel embrace.

"Guys?" Taffyta says, climbing out of her kart along with her fellow racers. "We're out of order."

No sooner have the words left her mouth than everyone starts screaming and running around in circles.

Except you. You're frozen in your seat in shock.

You've worked harder than anyone to be a racer. You've had to endure usurpation, homelessness, pixilation, name-calling, insults, destruction, betrayal, disappointment. But now you have a kart of your own, a place on the Random Roster board and possibly the greatest superpower a racer can possess: a Speed Boost.

To have all that taken away from you like this. . .

Your chest tightens. It feels like your heart breaking.

"Vanellope!" Rancis is calling to you from behind. He's running for the rainbow-striped road which leads to the power cable, and so are the other avatars and candy citizens. "What are you waiting for, a kiss goodbye?"

You shake your head and follow, leaving the Candy Kart behind.

You can't really think straight. You're lucky you're not a glitch anymore and can leave your game. Because the only place you want to be is with your big brother. In _Fix-It Felix Jr._

You sleepwalk through Game Central Station and onto the train, ignoring the warnings from Minty against "going Turbo." Once inside the console from the Eighties, you find a bench and sit on it. For a while you're not disturbing anyone. You wordlessly watch each game, mouthing along to every "I'M GONNA WRECK IT!" and "I CAN FIX IT!"

It's only a matter of time before the tears fall.

* * *

_Him_

A normal day brings relief and relaxation when the arcade closes.

This is not a normal day.

You are in the bathroom with Vanellope, alone together. Her big brother has stormed off somewhere else, presumably to shout at the people who are trying to help and tell them to work harder. The Nicelanders have gone to comfort the rest of the children with food.

After being given the usual all-clear from _Dance Dance Revolution X2_, Ralph found a red-eyed Vanellope at the train station. She told him that something had gone wrong with Cakeway's code, and now the game could be . . . unplugged.

Unplugged.

It's every video game character's least favourite word.

From the back of your mind, you recall a long-ago offer from a shadowy figure to take a course in video game programming. You declined, partly because it didn't seem entirely legal and partly because you couldn't imagine a time when you'd need to know how to change a zero into a one.

Now you wish you'd taken him up on his offer. So what if you got into trouble? Right now, you would be helping the Surge Protector find the problem. You would be fixing it. You would be doing something heroic!

Instead, there's nothing you can do except hold her as she weeps into your shoulder.

"This shouldn't be happening," she sobs, over and over again. "This shouldn't be happening."

"I know." You won't tell her it will be all right because you don't know that for sure. You just hear her out.

"I thought, after the reset, things would be okay. It was meant to be okay. I need okay!" She pushes away and glares at you with fire in her eyes. "Don't you think I deserve some okay after everything I've been through?"

You think you nod because it's true, not because she's scaring you.

"Then why-?" She glitches up to the cupboard and picks out something shiny before pixelating into the bathtub. "Look at this."

You come closer. She brings the blade to her arm, pauses – and slices it open.

"Vanellope!" you cry. This is like something out of a horror movie. Surely kids shouldn't have so much blood in them?

"Look at my code," she wails. "Look how pretty it is."

You peer at it. To be honest, you don't notice anything special, but you pretend. "Oh, yeah. Sure."

"There's the proof."

"Proof?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Proof that I should be happy." Her voice cracks.

"Vanellope, you're not making any sense."

"It's gonna be okay." She rocks back and forth, moaning, in pain. "It's gonna be okay."

You're panicking now. A hive of fearful thoughts buzzes in your brain. Vanellope is going mad. Vanellope is cutting too deeply. Vanellope cannot cope. Vanellope needs help.

Vanellope, Vanellope, Vanellope, Vanellope.

Maybe you should have told someone when she showed you her scars. Maybe then she really would be okay. Maybe then she wouldn't be bleeding something awful. Maybe then her eyes wouldn't be rolling back in her head.

But you'd have had to tell them why she told you about it in the first place. That means their disappointment. That means their judgement. That means their sympathy.

You don't deserve sympathy.

_You are a bad guy and you must be punished. _

You prise the razor out of the little girl's fingers and bring it to your legs.

The rest of the world disappears.

And so do you.


End file.
